


Your Daddy's Rich and Your Ma Is Good-looking

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Ocean's Eleven (2001)
Genre: Amusement Parks, Community: takethehouse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-06
Updated: 2006-09-06
Packaged: 2017-10-21 22:54:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/230759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a reason they're called confidence men, and doubt has no place in their world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Daddy's Rich and Your Ma Is Good-looking

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chicklet_Girl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chicklet_Girl/gifts).



> Thanks to Mousapelli and Laura for handholding and betaing. Title from Gershwin's "Summertime." Written for chicklet_girl in the takethehouse ficathon.

Rusty likes the Ferris wheel. It's slow and creaky, but when he's at the top, he can see the world spread out before him like a buffet, ready to be savored. It lets him know where he is, where he's going, and always takes him back to where he started out when it's done.

"It's a ride, not a metaphor," Danny says, straightening his jacket as they climb out.

"It's both," Rusty answers, continuing an argument they've had for nearly as long as they've known each other.

Danny makes an exasperated sound when Rusty stops again at the snack stand, but he should know it can't truly be a day at the amusement park until Rusty's had funnel cake. He's also had a corndog and a Sno-Cone, and later, there may be popcorn, but right now he wants fried dough covered in powdered sugar. Danny gets lemonade so tart it makes his mouth pucker; when Rusty takes a sip, it cuts the sweetness of the sugar perfectly.

"And the funnel cake? Is that a metaphor, too?"

Everything they do is a metaphor, a signifier, a stand-in for something else that doesn't exist until they create it, and then only because other people believe the lies they tell.

Rusty doesn't say that. He doesn't have to.

"No, it just tastes good." He doesn't worry about the light dusting of powdered sugar accumulating on his shirt, though Danny rolls his eyes as if he hasn't seen Rusty eat funnel cake a thousand times before over the last twenty years.

Twenty years, and they've been to every Six Flags in the United States, as well as countless other amusement parks and water parks and state fairs and street fairs, ridden state of the art roller coasters and creaky salt-and-pepper shakers rising from the backs of greasy trucks that have seen better days.

This is the first time since Rome, though, the first time since Tess and Isabel and all the things they'll never talk about, because there would be no point, even if they were the kind of people who talk about things, which they aren't, and never have been. They've never needed to, and Rusty doesn't see a reason to start now. He knows Danny understands him, or he doesn't, and talking won't change that either way.

Twenty years, and he can still remember the first time, in the city for San Gennaro, listening to Danny's excited murmur about the guy he knew who knew a guy who could hook them up, and that was the beginning. Danny had known a guy, who'd known a guy, who'd known Saul, and that was the best connection they'd ever made, learning from Saul Bloom, who had been a legend while they were still crapping in their diapers, as he likes to remind them.

Rusty holds up the paper plate. "Want some?"

The left side of Danny's mouth quirks up, and he reaches out with deft fingers and breaks off a piece. He closes his eyes when he puts it in his mouth, and Rusty smiles.

"This job is totally doable," he says around the last mouthful of funnel cake.

"You think?" There's amusement in Danny's voice, and something else Rusty isn't sure he recognizes.

"There isn't a lock made that can't be picked."

"No, but sometimes I wonder if there are some that shouldn't be."

That nearly makes Rusty stop walking. "We left should and shouldn't behind a long time ago." It's the truth and it's a question and Rusty feels stupid for even asking, in a way he hasn't since the night he saw Tess walk down the stairs at the Bellagio.

"Yeah." Danny shoves his hands into his pockets.

They ride the Tilt-a-Whirl next, and as Rusty slides across the metal seat worn smooth by thousands of asses sitting in it before him and presses up against Danny, Danny puts a hand on his knee--it's dark against the light blue linen of Rusty's trousers, and warmer than the air around them. The touch lasts only seconds, but the heat of it lingers, and Rusty glances at Danny out of the corner of his eye, trying to gauge what he means by it.

There was a time he'd have known instinctively, and he still thinks he does, but...it's not twenty years ago, it's now, and though Danny's the one who called him, Rusty's not sure what Danny wants, because he's not sure Danny knows what Danny wants. It's a new feeling, and not one he particularly enjoys.

He eases away, drapes an arm around the back of the car and lets his fingers brush over the hair on the nape of Danny's neck. Danny shivers and leans into the touch, and Rusty feels some of the tension he's been carrying in his shoulders dissipate, transform into anticipation. This, at least, is familiar.

After the Tilt-a-Whirl, they head towards the parking lot. It feels good to be in sync again, falling into step with Danny and knowing exactly what he's thinking as he's thinking it. It hasn't been the same since Rome--they were caught flat-footed at first by Benedict's demands, and it had taken them a few days to get themselves righted, and Rusty'd always had the sensation that they'd never really caught up, even though they came out on top. He knows that once either of them admitted the slightest doubt that what they were doing would work, the whole house of cards would have come tumbling down.

There's a reason they're called confidence men, and doubt has no place in their world.

He glances around the parking lot, making sure they're alone in their section, and kisses Danny hard and fast, quick slip of his tongue into Danny's lemonade and powdered sugar-flavored mouth, and then pulls away clean and smooth, the way he'd pick a pocket, no time or room for doubt.

Danny's lips quirk again, grin there and gone as quickly as the kiss, and Rusty smiles back as best he can without ever moving his mouth.

"Nice car," he says instead, running an admiring hand over the hood of the silver Mercedes convertible.

"It's all right." Danny slides into the driver's seat, buckles up. "I've got a room at the Hampton Inn," he says. "It's not the Ritz but--"

"I'm hurt that you think I'm a snob."

"You _are_ a snob."

"No, I just have high standards."

The grin Danny gives him sets heat pooling low in his belly. To distract himself, because they're too old to pull off the road to fuck in the car, and it's too public here anyway, he fiddles with the radio. He can't tune anything in that he actually wants to listen to--it's all static and half-heard country or rap mingling with drive time talk shows and hellfire evangelists--but it keeps his fingers busy.

Danny glances at him when he hits on the languid lilt of Ella Fitzgerald singing "Summertime," so he stops, lets it play. He closes his eyes and sinks into the lushness of the song, the honey-sweet tone of her voice.

They're at the hotel by the time the song is done, and Danny doesn't say a word. He doesn't need to. Rusty follows him in and up, quick elevator ride to the top floor, best suite in the place, the bedspread and upholstery all cream and rust florals, and striped paper on the walls.

As soon as the door swings shut behind them, he's pushing Danny against it, one hand working the bolt, the other sliding over the sun-warmed skin of Danny's neck to cup the back of his head, draw him into a kiss.

Danny's hands settle loosely on Rusty's hips, easing the material of his shirt out of his trousers and slipping his fingers along the skin of Rusty's belly. Rusty's breath stutters at the touch, starts again, shallow and ragged at the brush of Danny's fingers against his skin, warm where the silk of his shirt was cool, the feel of Danny's lips pressed firmly to his, the slide of Danny's tongue against the roof of his mouth.

He curls his fingers into Danny's hair; it tickles his palms and he gasp-laughs into Danny's mouth before pulling away to press his face against the side of Danny's neck and _breathe_.

When he looks up, Danny's staring at him, eyes dark and intent.

"There isn't a lock made that can't be picked," Danny says.

Rusty smiles. "That sounds familiar," he says, and lets Danny pull him close for another kiss.


End file.
